But now, he didn’t even know Mark Conway existed nor how many victims he’d persuaded himself he’d saved from a worse fate. Tony’s world had shrunk to his immediate surroundings, his only imperative to stay out of trouble he wouldn’t know how to handle. Keeping his head down, quietly getting on with writing his book, occupying a niche with the prison radio station – that was all he should focus on right now. Anything else was a distraction. There would be time enough to figure out what kind of life he might have in future. Time enough to explore whether he and Carol might find a way back to each other.
Groggy from a restless night on his comfortless mattress, he ground through his morning routine on automatic pilot. Shave in lukewarm water, dress in jeans and T-shirt, everything a day or two past where he’d have worn it on the outside. The small degradations that all made it impossible to forget he was being punished. Then down to a breakfast of flabby sweating sausages and potato hash, half an eye on what was going on around him in case it might kick off in a fashion that could drag him into somebody else’s war. All clear, he headed back to his cell. Someone further down the wing was screaming about some perceived injustice. There was something wrong with the heating and in his brief absence, his cell had warmed up to an uncomfortable degree, amplifying the familiar smells. Still, he’d be able to carve out an hour for writing before he had to report for his shift.
Two days ago, he’d been assigned to work three shifts a week in the prison laundry. This would be his second day of wheeling baskets through the wings, collecting dirty clothes and bedding and carting it down to the laundry where vast industrial machines grunted and churned. It was, he was told with some resentment, a cushy number.
On the second day, the man he had learned was top dog on his landing stopped him on the way from breakfast. ‘Laundry boy,’ he’d begun, his voice loaded with disdain. ‘You know what your name is now?’
‘Maybe you could tell me?’ Tony tried for a conciliatory smile, knowing even as he did that it was an epic fail.
‘Postman Pat.’
It wasn’t what he’d expected. ‘First-class mail?’
The man grinned sourly. ‘I’m the cunt who makes the jokes round here. You’ll be delivering packages for me on your rounds. Is that clear?’
Heart sinking, Tony had agreed that yes, he’d be the new delivery boy. He suspected the prison officers knew perfectly well what was going on but it was easier to let it slide than put a stop to it and have to figure out what had replaced it.
That morning, before he could write more than a couple of sentences, a skinny prisoner with elaborate tattoos of serpents and naked women sidled into his cell. Tony had no recollection of seeing him before and was instantly wary. The man had a gaunt face and cropped dark hair with glints of silver at the temples. ‘You the shrink guy?’ he demanded. His accent was some sort of East European.
It wasn’t the time to get into the shades of difference between psychologists, psychiatrists and psychotherapists. ‘I guess,’ Tony said. ‘Dr Tony Hill, that’s me.’
‘I am Matis Kalvaitis. You are an educated man.’ He took a couple of steps further inside the cell. He folded his arms across his chest, the ropes of muscle making his tattoos move in a sinister dance.
‘Most people would say so.’ Tony felt the familiar tightening of fear in his chest. What did this man want?
‘I need you.’ He let his arms drop to his side and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I need you to write this for me.’ He thrust it at Tony, who studied it as he unfolded it. It was a printout from a website explaining the grounds for appealing against deportation following a criminal conviction.
‘They want to deport you?’
‘Back to Lithuania. That’s no good for me.’
‘You think you’ve got grounds for appealing?’
Kalvaitis nodded vigorously. ‘Fucking right. I have been in UK for eleven years. I work in garage, I am mechanic. I have English wife since eight years. I have two boys. Six and four years.’ He shrugged. ‘I got in stupid fight.’ He clapped himself on the chest. ‘I am good fighter. Too good for stupid bastard who started it. They say I am dangerous man but I just want to stay with my family. You will write letter.’ It wasn’t really a question.
‘You’ve got the paperwork? Your marriage certificate, work records, the birth certificates for your lads?’ Tony stalled.
‘Yes, yes, my wife keeps stupid papers, never throws anything away. You write letter, she will do rest.’
‘Why can’t she write the letter?’
He snorted. ‘Because she is not an educated woman. We have no money for lawyer and we don’t have pitiful story for people to tweet about. You write letter and I will be your friend. Everybody needs friends in prison.’
In Tony’s view, it wasn’t so much that you needed friends, more that you needed to avoid making enemies. The last thing he wanted was to make an enemy of a good fighter. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Kalvaitis gave him a long hard stare. ‘I’ll see what you can do, Dr Hill.’ He turned on his heel and slipped out without a backward glance. Tony looked at the paper again. It shouldn’t be too difficult to draft an appeal. Kalvaitis’ poorly educated wife could fill in the gaps, or get someone else to do that for her.
Tony closed his laptop and turned to a fresh page in his pad. If it kept him even a fraction safer, it would be worth it. Survival, that was the prime directive.
17
At the first seminar I attended as a callow student of psychology, the lecturer began
